Hip. At Bethlem Monastery! the place well fits,
It is the school where those that lose their wits,
Practise again to get them: I am sick
Of that disease; all love is lunatic.
Doct. We’ll steal away this night in some disguise:
Father Anselmo, a most reverend friar,
Expects our coming; before whom we lay
Reasons so strong, that he shall yield in bands
Of holy wedlock to tie both your hands.
Hip. This is such happiness,
That to believe it, ’tis impossible.
Doct. Let all your joys then die in misbelief;
I will reveal no more.
Hip. O yes, good father,
I am so well acquainted with despair,
I know not how to hope: I believe all.
Doct. We’ll hence this night, much must be done, much said:
But if the doctor fail not in his charms,
Your lady shall ere morning fill these arms.
Hip. Heavenly physician! for thy fame shall spread,
That mak’st two lovers speak when they be dead. [Exeunt.
